Fineshrine
by hazy sea
Summary: "Cut open my sternum and pull my little ribs around you. The lungs of me be crowns over you." Isabelle had lost it all and gained it all back. She realizes the person who she counts on the most and the one who fixed all her pain is not who he claims to be. (I didn't think much about the summary, sorry)
1. Chapter 1

Okay, well. This is my first writing-thing in a very long time. This is pretty much just for fun because I stay so bored. If there's any interest, be nice with your reviews. I'm pretty sure there are a ton of mistakes in this and I have an ongoing issue with writing characters right, but I will try my best! Thanks!

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CHAPTER ONE

Isabelle Deforest was a daddy's girl. Her father was Arthur Deforest, a knight in shining armor, a 6'4" blonde haired saint. He had spent the majority of his life in the Royal Navy and only from the time Isabelle had turned sixteen and when he reached the rank of Admiral was he regularly present in her life. They made up for the absence and by the time she had graduated from Oxford, they were as close as any father and daughter could be. With no other siblings to damper her confidence and poise, she was always at the top of her game, no matter what life threw at her, and always with daddy by her side. She was calm, understanding, and most of all, kind. She went out of her way to help animals and the elderly, and made sure her parents had everything they needed. After all, they had done all they could to provide only the best for her. She had graduated at the top of her class from a pristine school and had a degree in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics.

Isabelle's father was killed just after she had gotten a job at the Bank of England. She was devastated. She didn't go to work for a month, she didn't talk to anyone. After a month, Isabelle had finally left her apartment (with a lot of persuasion from her mother) and decided to do the most menial of things - grocery shop. She had prowled along the aisles, secretly hoping for anything or anyone to rescue her. Shortly after her trip out of her apartment, she had called and resigned from her position at the bank. The public was just too much to handle.

James Moriarty was a good friend of Arthur Deforest's. He had been upset when he had heard the news of his death, but like James Moriarty always does, he never wavered. He had attended the funeral services and paid his respects like any old criminal would do. After all, how could he not when he was partially responsible for the old man's death. It hadn't taken long for him to track down the heiress to his old friend's estate, but when he did, he found nothing left of the cool and confident 25 year old he had been keeping an eye on since Arthur had introduced them at a military ball. He found an emotional wreck who refused to her townhouse and even attempt to get dressed each day.

It had taken Isabelle awhile but she had eventually warmed up to James - or Jim, as she so lovingly called him - and they grew very close, very fast, and it seemed like all the damage of her father's death was gone so quickly when she saw him. After a year, he had convinced her to move in with him on private property in the country. She was four hours away from London, living in a classically modern home on quite a bit of land. She had traded her city view for a view of a pond, her small two bedroom townhouse for a home with more than four bedrooms. She settled quickly, after all she didn't have to move anything. Jim had bought her all new clothes and shoes. She only had to bring her camera and a few other select electronics.

And within only a few months of being on the private estate, Isabelle had won her battle with depression and gained back her confidence. She walked with a new air about her and promised herself never to dip that low again. Of course, with James Moriarty by their side, who in the world would have to worry about that? James Moriarty is and will always be Isabelle Deforest's rock. Her father had given her a warning about him when she was younger, but she figured she knew him enough to trust that he would make good decisions for the both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Still just on the basics and stuff. Next chapter will be more interesting, hopefully. EDITED. I forgot to copy a whole paragraph. Yikes.

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CHAPTER TWO

The first time Sherlock had seen Isabelle was when Jim had rejoined them in the pool. He had led her in behind him, as if he forgot something. She quickly had wiped the surprised look off her face, as if her partner would be upset. She said nothing, however, and chose to hang off Jim's arm like a trophy wife. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at the sight and for some reason, he half-thought that he should have the gun he was holding pointed at her and not James Moriarty. She was the same height as Moriarty, however, Sherlock had noticed her blood red heels and pinned her at 5'3" accordingly. She was thin, but shapely, and her black cocktail dress fell just above her knee, hugging her thighs tightly. Her long, dirty blonde hair was curled over her shoulder and ended right before her waist in a very pronounced line against her red jacket. Sherlock had locked eyes with her for a brief moment, taking in the bright burst of blue in this moment of nothing of dark, and then he had looked back over at Moriarty, surprised by the look of curiosity on his face. Jim had noticed Sherlock look at his prize and smirked, laughing at loud. By that laugh, Sherlock knew that he would be seeing a lot more of the girl who accompanied his enemy.

The second time Sherlock had encountered the mysterious blonde, she had paid him a visit at his flat, claiming to be looking for something for Moriarty. Sherlock questioned if Isabelle knew the full story about James Moriarty, but it was hard enough to read her, much less determine what she knew and didn't know about him. The two continued to collaborate at coffee shops and random public places until Sherlock handed over what Isabelle was after. She told him she couldn't see him anymore because her loving mate had returned from a long trip. Sherlock had seen right through the lie and knew that Isabelle felt guilty for actually liking him. After all, Sherlock was Moriarty's arch nemesis, and Moriarty's girl would not and could not be seen having coffee or tea with him. Sherlock understood and let her go, knowing he'd miss the quirky blonde he had come to know.

After that, Sherlock had seen her at the trial, still holding true to the darkness of her lover, but looking a little weary, and it wasn't long until Sherlock had seen her again. It was raining, and James Moriarty's casket was placed in front of her. He was watching from afar, concluding it'd be much too dangerous to get any closer than his place behind some trees. Her long hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head and Sherlock watched her as she stared blankly at the black bed in which his rival laid. He watched her the entire time. Not a single tear fell from her eyes. Not a single change of facial expression. Nothing. He considered himself emotionless but when it came down to it, she had him beat. The two had continued their meetings shortly after Moriarty was buried. Sherlock assumed it was because there was no longer any guilt to feel.

Sherlock thought that this time seeing her would be his last. She was of course, pointing a loaded Glock at his face. He stood there in the abandoned factory, noticing now the woman he had been intrigued by was also dangerous. He had done something to upset her, but what? He inhaled slowly and smiled.

"What are you doing, Isabelle?" He said, his voice lower than normal. He blamed it on the stress of the situation and not on the long legs of the woman in front of him.

"It's all your fault, Sherlock. This sucks! I should have never seen you after he died. I can't even take this fucking ring off!"

It was a simple answer, she didn't offer any other information. Sherlock nodded, going back to their encounter in his head, "Why are you upset with me, Isabelle?"

She stepped forward, her heels clicking on the concrete, "You should have an idea, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes," Sherlock countered, "So, why are you upset, _Isabelle_?"

"You killed him! He was so obsessed with you," Isabelle said, the gun shaking in her hand, "And it was _you,_ Sherlock Holmes."

He stared at her, noticing the freckles that were scattered across her cheeks, then he noticed the cold look in her eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth as he saw her finger go to the trigger quickly, her mind already made up. The shot rang in his ears and he looked at the blonde with wide eyes.

Then Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that a hand had come out of the shadows behind Isabelle, and knocked the gun away, the bullet loudly hitting a wall behind them.


End file.
